Her eyes flicked to his face, wide, curious, wanting to know.
He trapped her gaze. “I want you, but not as a result of any damned gratitude!”
Her eyes remained on his, then scanned his features. “Why, then”—her voice, too, was low, intensely private—“are you helping me?”
For an instant, he inwardly rocked, then he found the right words—words he could say. “Because you deserve it. Because you and your sister and your demon brothers don’t deserve the censure of the ton, let alone being implicated in a murder.”
For a long moment, she held his gaze, then her lips gently lifted. “Thank you.” She looked away; he only just caught her last words. “You’re a good man.”
He wasn’t quite so good as he would have her believe, but he definitely wasn’t expecting her gratitude to stretch as far as an invitation to her bed. He did expect to be invited to her bed, but not because of his efforts on her behalf.
The next morning, he was still… not so much smarting as ruffled, a disordered sensation he appreciated not at all. A vague disgruntlement that she’d even imagined that he might need to resort to gratitude—
He cut off the thought and headed for the Bastion Club.
Sanity in a disconcerting world—a world with females in it.
He was looking for advice. In the club’s drawing room, he found Christian Allardyce slouched in an armchair, his long legs stretched out, ankles crossed, a news sheet propped before his face. He lowered it as Tony entered.
“Ho! And here I’ve been wondering about these tales of you stumbling over a dead body.”
Tony grimaced. “All true, I’m afraid, and there’s a deadly twist. The game’s fallen into Dalziel’s lap, and guess who he’s tapped on the shoulder?”
Christian’s brows rose. “And you agreed?”
Elegantly sitting in another chair, Tony shrugged. “Aside from the fact that refusing Dalziel is marginally more difficult than taking an enemy battery single-handed, there were other aspects that attracted me.”
“Quite apart from tripping over the body.”
“Indeed. From what we have, the man was a traitor of sorts.” Crisply, he outlined what he knew of Ruskin, omitting all mention of one lovely widow. After describing the payments made by A. C., he went on, “I wondered if perhaps, if A. C. was truly wise, he might have channeled the payments through a moneylender.”
Christian opened his eyes wide. “Used a moneylender to draw the large sums, then paid them back with numerous smaller amounts much easier to explain from his own accounts?”
“Exactly. Do you think that’s possible?”
Christian nodded. “I would say so.” He met Tony’s gaze. “Certainly worth asking.”
“Next question: who do I ask? I’ve never had any dealings with such gentlemen.”
“Ah! You’ve come to the right source.”
It was Tony’s turn to open his eyes wide. “I would never have imagined you deep in debt and reduced to dealing with moneylenders.”
Christian grinned and laid aside the news sheet. “No, I never was. But I once bailed out a friend, and along the way I made the acquaintance of a good handful of the gentlemen. Enough, certainly, to start you on your way.”
Folding his hands across his waistcoat, Christian leaned his head back; eyes on the ceiling, he started recounting all he knew.
Tony drank it in. At the end of fifteen minutes, he knew exactly who to approach, and even more importantly, how.
Thanking Christian, he left the club and headed into the city.
His interview with Mr. King, the most famous—or infamous depending on one’s point of view—usurer in London was an unqualified success. Mr. King’s office was a stone’s throw from the Bank of England; as Christian had prophesied, Mr. King was perfectly happy to assist the authorities given their investigation in no way threatened him or his trade.
A traitor lost all claim to confidentiality; Mr. King had ascertained that no gentleman with the initials A. C. had borrowed large sums of cash from him. He’d confirmed that the practice of disguising major debts in such a way was not uncommon, and had undertaken to inquire on the government’s behalf among the other moneylenders capable of advancing such sums.
Tony parted from Mr. King on genial terms. Hailing a hackney, he headed back to Mayfair. With the money angle in hand, he had two other avenues of inquiry to pursue; as the carriage rocked along, he considered how best to tackle them.
Nearing the fashionable quarter, he glanced out at the pavement. It was a glorious day, ladies walking, children laughing and dancing.
Temptation whispered.
Reaching up, he thumped on the roof, then directed the jarvey to Green Park.
He arrived to an exuberant welcome, and had just enough time to have a quick turn flying the kite before Alicia, feigning primness, gathered them all and herded them back to Waverton Street.
Although he quizzed her with his eyes, she remained spuriously aloof, walking smartly along, the boys skipping about them.
He matched his stride to hers, inwardly amused, not only with her but with himself. It had been a long time—thirteen years at least—since he’d felt so relaxed, experienced this kind of subtle content. He’d honestly enjoyed his time with her brothers; it was almost as if his military years, especially as he’d lived them, had been taken out of his life, excised, so the youth he’d been at nineteen had more in common with the man he had become.
Or perhaps all he’d seen, all he’d experienced in those thirteen years away, had left him with a deeper appreciation of life’s little pleasures.
Reaching their house, she opened the door. The boys tumbled in.
“Blackberry jam today!” Matthew sang, and rushed for the stairs.
The older two raced after him, laughing and calling. Jenkins, the kite in his arms, smiled and trudged after them.
Alicia called after him, “Do make sure they’re clean before they come down, Jenkins.”
“Aye, ma’am.” Jenkins looked back. “And I’ll let Cook know about tea.”
He nodded deferentially to the presence behind her; suddenly realizing, Alicia whirled. “Oh—yes.” She met Tony’s black eyes; uncertainty flared. “You…er, will stay for tea, won’t you?”
They were suddenly alone in the hall. He smiled, slowly, into her eyes, then inclined his head. “Blackberry jam’s my favorite.”
His gaze dropped to her lips; the image that flashed into her mind was of him licking blackberry jam from them. Heat rising in her cheeks, she quickly turned away. “Adriana will be in the parlor.”
She led the way, with some relief saw Adriana look up as they entered. Adriana and Tony exchanged easy greetings; as was her habit, Adriana was studying the latest fashion plates prior to designing their next round of gowns.
They all sat; a companionable, almost familial ease fell over them. From her corner of the chaise, Alicia watched as Adriana asked Tony’s opinions on various styles depicted in the latest issue of La Belle Assemblée. He responded readily; it was quickly apparent he understood more about ladies’ garments than one might suppose a gentleman would….
She broke off the thought. His attention was on the plates Adriana had spread before him; she seized the opportunity to study him.
She wished she could see into his mind.
Since they’d parted the previous evening, she’d been plagued by one question: how did he think of her? How did he see her—what were his intentions, his expectations? What direction did he imagine they were headed in?
Given the circumstances, those were not only valid questions; learning the answers was vital to maintaining her charade and succeeding in their aim of having Adriana marry well.
Tony—Viscount Torrington—could easily scupper their plans. If he learned of them, and if he so chose. There was, at present, no reason he should stumble on their—her—crucial secret. That secret, however, was precisely the fact that most complicated her way forward.
Along w
ith all the ton, he thought her a widow.
Last night had been a warning. If she was to maintain her charade long enough to establish Adriana, and then disappear, she was going to have to as far as possible restrict her interaction with Torrington.
And what she couldn’t avoid, she was going to have to respond to as if she was indeed a widow; she couldn’t risk all they’d done, all their success to date, by succumbing to any missish sentiment.
The thunder of feet on the stairs heralded her brothers’ arrival. They burst in, full of chatter and exclamations. Jenkins followed with the tray. In seconds, the parlor was filled with rowdy, boisterous warmth and comfort; if anything was needed to remind her why she was playing the role she was, it was there before her in her brothers’ smiling, laughing, happy faces.
Torrington—thinking of him by his title helped to keep a sensible distance between them, at least in her mind— gave his attention to the boys, answering questions, joining in their speculations and wonderings, occasionally teasing in a way the boys not only understood and accepted, but took great delight in.
As the guardian of three males, she’d long known they were incomprehensible beings; watching Tony— Torrington!—slouched on the floor, munching a muffin slathered with blackberry jam only compounded her wonder.
He caught her watching; their gazes touched, locked, then he smiled. A fleeting, wholly personal, even intimate gesture, then he looked again to David, who’d posed the question of when the animals in the zoo were most likely fed.
To the boys’ disappointment, Tony admitted he didn’t know; to their delight, he promised to find out.
It was time to step in. She leaned forward. “Enough, boys! Time for your lessons.”
With artistic groans, they clambered to their feet; eyes alight, each shook hands with Tony. Armed with his promise to let them know what he learned with all speed, they left with remarkable alacrity for their books.
Inwardly frowning, Alicia watched them disappear. Jenkins entered and removed the tray.
As he was leaving, Adriana bounced to her feet. “I want to do some sketching. I’ll be up in my room.”
Before Alicia could think of a suitably worded protest, given he whose presence occasioned that protest was stretched at her feet looking thoroughly at home, Adriana had blithely taken her leave of him, then, without meeting her eyes, her sister whisked out of the room.
And closed the door behind her.
SIX
ALICIA CONSIDERED THE CLOSED DOOR, THEN LOOKED AT Tony. Torrington! He remained on the floor, shoulders against the side of an armchair; his expression gently amused, he raised a brow at her.
She cleared her throat. “Have you learned anything more about Ruskin?” She needed to keep his mind away from her, from his interest in her; his investigation was assuredly her best bet.
His eyes opened a fraction wider. “Yes, and no. I haven’t learned anything definite, but I have certain inquiries in train. Whether they bear fruit remains to be seen.”
When she waited, pointedly, Tony grinned. “I spent a most illuminating morning learning about moneylenders.”
“Moneylenders?” Alarm flared across her face; her hand instinctively rose to her breast.
“Not on my account.” He frowned fleetingly at her.
“It’s not unknown for gentlemen like A. C. to move the large sums they use to pay their informants via moneylenders, thus concealing their part in the transaction. I visited Mr. King this morning, and asked if he knew of any gentleman with the initials A. C. who had borrowed large sums regularly over recent years.”
She continued to stare at him; her stillness was strange. “Any gentleman…” She drew breath. “I see. And did he?”
“No.” Tony studied her, trying to fathom the cause of her reaction. “He had no such borrower on his books. However, he agreed to check with the other moneylenders. Given he’s something of an institution in the field, if A. C. has been using moneylenders to cover his tracks, I believe we can rely on Mr. King to unearth him.”
She blinked; some of her tension had faded. “Oh.” She searched his face, then abruptly rose; with a swish of skirts, she went to stand before the window. “Ruskin’s information must have some bearing on this. Presumably A. C. used it to his benefit, or why seek and pay for it?”
“Indeed.” His gaze on her, Tony got to his feet, resettled his coat, then approached. “There are other avenues I’m exploring.”
His voice warned her; she glanced over her shoulder as he halted behind her, so close she was to all intents and purposes—certainly his intents and purposes—trapped between him and the wide windowsill.
Her eyes widened; she sucked in a quick breath. “What avenues?”
Standing this close, with the perfume of her hair and skin rising, wreathing his senses, his mind wasn’t on his investigation. “The shipping is one.” He slid one palm across her waist, then splayed his fingers and urged her back against him.
She hesitated, then permitted it, letting him settle her, warm and alive, against him. “How are you going to investigate that?”
The words were thready, starved of breath. He inwardly grinned, and sent his other hand to join the first, anchoring her before him, savoring the supple strength of her beneath his palms, her warmth and the softness of the feminine curves riding against him. “I have a friend, Jonathon Hendon. He and his wife will be in London in a few days.”
Bending his head, he set his lips to cruise the fine skin above her temple. “Jonathon owns one of the major shipping lines. If anyone can indentify the likely use of Ruskin’s information, Jonathon will.”
There was a nervous tension in her he couldn’t place, didn’t understand.
“So you’ll learn what A. C. used the information for from Jonathon?”
Beneath his hands, she stirred. Her pulse had accelerated; her breathing was shallow.
“Not quite.” He bent lower, let his breath caress her ear. “Jonathon will be able to say what the information might have been used for, but proving that someone did use it, then following the trail back to that someone won’t be quite so simple.”
“But…it would work.”
“Yes. Regardless of how we identify A. C., we’ll still need to piece his scheme together. Eventually.” He breathed the last word as he set his lips to her ear, then lightly traced with his tongue.
A telltale shudder racked her spine, then she surrendered and sank back against him. Feeling ludicrously victorious, he changed position so he could minister to her other ear.
Her hands closed over his at her waist, gripped. “What other route…you said avenues… plural…”
Her voice faded as he artfully teased; when he lifted his head, she sighed. He grinned openly—wolfishly—knowing she couldn’t see. “There’ll be some other connection between Ruskin and A. C. They’ll have met somewhere, have known each other, even if only distantly. Their lives will have touched somewhere, at some time.”
Sliding his hands from under hers, he ran his palms slowly upward. Heard the swift intake of her breath as his thumbs brushed the undersides of her breasts. She stiffened, stilled. He caressed knowingly, reassuringly; gradually, almost skittishly, she eased back.
“How—” She cleared her throat. “How do you plan to investigate…that?”
She was having trouble finding breath enough to speak; he decided to make it harder still. “I have a friend, not exactly up that way, but close enough.” Boldly turning his hands, he cupped her breasts.
Alicia thought she might faint. Her lungs seized; her head whirled. Desperate, she clung to her wits. Dragged in a tight breath. “Ah…what…?”
“I’ll ask him to check in Bledington. See if the initials A. C. mean anything to people there.”
She jerked as his hands shifted, frantically fought down all further reaction. She hadn’t imagined he would…
His voice had grown deeper, darker, more gravelly. Would a widow protest? On what grounds?
Gidd
iness threatened. She hauled in a breath, briefly closed her eyes, battered by conflicting impulses. Panic that his friend might stumble on more than she would wish. The urge to stiffen—not just in response to that, but to his boldness, to the liberties he was taking… her head was spinning. The countering instinct to sink against him, to arch her spine, press her breasts, now aching so strangely, into his hard hands only added to her dizziness.
Then he closed his hands and kneaded.
She lost the last of her breath. Her senses fractured. Her wits fled.
Beyond her control, her spine softened, gave; she had to lean fully against him, her hands dropping helplessly to brace against his muscled thighs.
His fingers shifted, then closed again. Tightened.
Fire lanced through her. She gasped, arched; eyes shut, she let her head fall back as he repeated the torture, then he bent his head to her throat, now exposed. His lips cruised, then settled.
Hot, wet, his mouth covered the spot where her pulse raced. He kissed, licked, laved, all the while massaging her breasts, sending wave after wave of pure sensation rushing through her.
Heat built beneath her skin; the rasp of his tongue over her pulse point shocked and teased her senses. His hands were strong, his grip confident, knowing, his body a wall of hard muscle and bone, holding her there, a captive to delight.
To the pleasure even in her innocence she knew he was orchestrating.
She felt totally at his mercy. And witlessly content to be so.
Madness—but an oh-so-pleasurable insanity.
This had to be lovemaking, a part of it, of the type a nobleman indulged in with his mistress.
Illicit. Exciting. Enthralling…
The moment for protest was long past. Her role was set; eyes closed, head back, she gave herself up to it—she couldn’t draw back now.
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